Goodbyes
by JenniferJF
Summary: Sometimes, our oldest memories are the most significant. No spoilers, but will make more sense if you've seen through Eulogy.
1. The First

Over the course of her long life, there had been far, far too many. More than any human being was ever meant to have. Yet the first of them all still remained, in many ways, the hardest. It dwelt at the very outer limit of her memory, almost lost in time, yet important enough to have burned itself into her mind forever.

Even though at the time she'd hardly understood.

Her first goodbye.

She is awakened from a sound sleep by her governess, who in her mind's eye appears no more than a bodiless apparition, a face cast in flickering shadows by the candle held aloft in her hand. Even in that light, Helen can still remember the look in the woman's eyes - the strange mixture of compassion and powerlessness which she will always associate with death.

"Miss Helen?" the other woman whispers, and the tone terrifies the child she was even though she can have no way of comprehending why. "Miss, you need to come with me. Your father has called for you."

In a hurry, driven by the desperate urgency in the other woman's voice, she throws back her heavy duvet and, aided by her governess, pulls on her housecoat and slippers. She cannot remember their passage through the house, merely the sense of need and fear which carry her to the doorway of her parents' bedchamber.

The door, which she remembers nearly always closed, now stands open before her, and in the warm glow of the gas lights beyond she sees her father sitting bent over the bed. At first, she is unable to make out the form lying so very still in the bed. Or perhaps, some instinctive self-protection will not allow her to understand. To comprehend the evidence her eyes present. Her mother on her death bed before her.

And so she pauses on the threshold, suddenly unable to move forward - to become part of the tableau and thus acknowledge it as more than the nightmare from which she is now desperate to wake. Some sound or motion must have caught her father's attention, though, for he looks up suddenly in her direction, and motions for her to come to him. She does not want to comply; her instinct is to turn and flee, to run back to the safety of her own chamber and pull the covers over her head and wait to wake.

But she does not. She steps forward, into her father's outstretched arms, and he pulls her gently to her mother's side.

"Patricia," he says, his voice barely above a murmur. "She is here."

After a long moment, her mother opens her eyes. Those bright blue eyes, which have contained the whole of Helen's world, now barely focus on her as they look up from a face grown far too wan and pale. And Helen knows what she is seeing even though she can not possibly understand.

"Mama?"

One hand reaches up from the bed clothes, her fingers' brush upon Helen's cheek nearly impossible to feel. "Oh.. My darling," she breathes.

And she has tried to be strong, but she can be no longer. The tears overflow her eyes, running unstopped down her cheeks, and she collapses into her mother's waiting arms.

She can still feel her mother's last touch, gentle on her hair, her ear, her shoulder. Memorizing the feel of her. And her last words, barely above a whisper, never fully understood until much, much later: "Remember, Gregory. Your promise. For her. For you. _Nos Must Amitto Vivo En." *_

And he did. They did. _She_ did. For far longer than anyone was ever meant to. Even when, at times, she wondered what it was she went on for.

There were far too many goodbyes.

-----

*for anyone who doesn't know: "One must let go to move on."


	2. The Second

Her second goodbye was, in many ways, harder than the first. With the first, the decision had been made for her. With the second, she'd had to make the choice herself.

The day of the goodbye had sat like a boulder in her mind since she'd first set the date nearly four years earlier, and it had appeared as a bright red 'X' buried in her calendar for eight months before she found it staring up at her from the current page. Then, inevitably, the date which had always seemed so far in the future arrived and she'd had to face its full reality. Twenty years to the day her father had left for Mecca. Twenty years since they had last said goodbye.

How could she have known then it would prove to be forever?

Yet it was clear now that it had been. In truth, she had known for some time even before setting the date that he must truly be gone.

Truly be _dead_.

Because one mustn't spare words. Or truths. Her father had taught her that, amongst so many other things. Denial would help nothing.

And she was certain, by then, that he must be dead. Nothing else could explain so long an absence. So today, twenty years since his initial departure, was the day she'd determined to say goodbye.

She passed through her father's chamber, the room perfectly preserved against his return, should that have occurred. Twenty years of dusting and cleaning, laundering and polishing had preserved it perfectly, not a hint of moth or mustiness, dirt or debris marred the scene.

As she pushed open the French doors leading to the room's balcony, she briefly registered the blast of wind which struck her face. The ever present particulates of dirt and ash stung her skin, reminding her that she, at least, still lived and breathed and _felt_. She curled her palm around the flame of the candle held in her hand, protecting it as she stepped outside.

Crossing to the balcony's edge, she held the candle up and over the railing, it's light flickering as the flame danced in her hand. Adding it's sparkle to the millions illuminating the London night.

Then, she dropped her hand. The flame sputtered briefly, dancing at the end of its wick. And then it was gone, leaving behind nothing but a thin tendril of smoke curling into the sky.

"Goodbye, Father," she murmured into the sudden darkness. She remained where she stood, silently watching for many long minutes until the smoldering wick cooled completely - until the last evidence of the flame's existence dissipated in the night air.

Then, turning, she went back inside.

The next morning she issued orders to the servants; Father's belongings were removed and carefully packed and placed into storage. Two days later, Helen moved into what had once been his bedroom: the master bedroom of her parent's London home. On that day, it truly became hers.

Her house. Her Sanctuary. Because Father had taught her that, too.

_Nos Must Amitto Vivo En._


End file.
